


Burning Brightly

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 15:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20997386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: Cassian never stood a chance.





	Burning Brightly

Nesta liked to do things her own way. 

It had taken an embarrassingly long time for Cassian to understand that—to  _ truly _ understand that. Though they were bound to each other by marriage and matehood, Nesta’s will was her own. And while Cassian wouldn’t change that for the world, there were times when he wished she was  _ a little  _ more yielding. Just a tad.

Especially when it came to training. 

“Come to the ring,” he asked her one night, as they sat side by side in front of their hearth fire.

Years ago, she would have sneered at him. Or freeze his balls off with a glare of cold disdain. His mate had never been fond of training, and much preferred the art of sorcery over the art of sword. But this argument was a well-worn groove between them and as such, Nesta only smirked.

It was Cassian’s favorite kind of smirk. The kind that brought a wicked little curl to the corner of her mouth. The kind that made him think all sorts of fiendish things.

But first things first. 

“You’re out of practice,” he went on, tugging at the hem of her gown, lifting it just enough to thumb a circle around her ankle. There was a scar there. A small one, but deep, in the shape of a crescent moon. It had been an arrow that nicked her, she said, on the battlefield with Hybern. It was astonishing that was all that nicked her. How much raw power did she have at the time? How much did she harness now? “Magic won’t always be there to save you. Not even  _ your  _ powers are infinite.” 

“Yet,” she said, shamelessly. And while he wanted to kiss her for it, the point remained.

“I’m serious. Come to the ring,” he asked. “Just to watch.” 

There would be a pause as Nesta weighed her answer. That was another thing Cassian loved about her: no matter how many times he asked her the same question, she would always give it her full consideration. Even if she inevitably said no (most of the time). 

“I see you show off often enough,” she said. 

Sometimes, when Nesta was in the mood, she would leave the Steppes to accompany him to Velaris. There, she would play spectator in the bouts with his brothers. But sparring with Rhys and Azriel was one thing. Sparring with the legions, however, was another. He switched tactics. 

“The new recruits are cocky little shits,” he pressed. 

“Pot. Kettle,” she said, wryly. But there was no sting in her barb. No, here in their home, her voice was soft and lilting. Her expressions were softer too, and so were her eyes. Cassian was one of the few people in the world who was allowed to see her this way, and that privilege always filled him with an unbearable tenderness. Still, he had to focus.

“You should come by,” he said, his hand questing beneath her gown, tracing the smooth curve of her calf, her thigh, then higher. “Do a demonstration for them.” 

“Oh I see,” she said, pulse fluttering as his fingers began exploring other places. “It’s  _ me  _ you want to show off.” 

He murmured an assent before pressing himself against her neck. “Is that so wrong?” 

In true Nesta fashion, she didn’t answer. But the delicious sigh she made was answer enough. As was the wetness that met his fingertips.

“You’re...not playing...very fair.” 

He crushed his lips against hers as she rolled beneath him, gown hitched up and half-undone. Her bare skin glowed under the firelight. Cassian kept his hand busy. Worked at her just the way she liked. Giving her more, but not too much. Just enough to make her ache, just enough to make her arch toward him. 

He grinned. “Nothing in war is fair, Nesta.” 

The frustrated growl she gave drove him to distraction, as did the dark gold of her hair, which spilled around her like silken halo. Everything about her was bewitching and wanton. But the Commander didn’t lose sight of his goal. 

“So you’ll come?” he asked, putting an extra emphasis on the last word, adding another finger. 

“Cassian...” 

The sound of his name from her parted lips never failed to electrify him. To make him want. To make him  _ hard.  _ His tunic had been pulled off in the fray and now Nesta was reaching for the stays of his pants. He brushed her off and held her wrist. 

“Will you come?” His movements were ceaseless. “Nesta, will you come?” 

Breathless. Her brow furrowed in conflict. “I…you’re…”

He leaned down. Kissed her again. “Will you  _ come _ ?”

She gasped a “yes” as her orgasm took hold of her, making her body quiver and shake all over. Gods, he loved her like this. Loved her until the end of the world. 

“You are such an extortionist,” she accused.

He sucked his fingers into his mouth, eyes rolling back in satisfaction. “Mmm. I know.” 

* * *

It had been a long while since Nesta had visited the camps. Since they had been mated, her appearances there were only occasional. She was there to stand by his side during their councils and their ceremonies. And once in a while, she was there to greet the warrior novices who always gazed at her with a mixture of awe, fear, and suspicion. 

“Are these the cocky little shits you told me about?” she said, brazen as any Illyrian male. 

“These are the ones,” he said.

Their voices rang down the lines of the mountain clearing where the warrior novices were lined up in formation. One on either side. Males and females. Nobles and commoners. The ratios of one to the other still spoke volumes about the rigidity of his people’s culture. The changes had been small and painfully slow, and there were more setbacks than successes. But they were happening and Cassian would take his wins where he could. 

Today’s demonstration would be about harnessing the killing power: the energy that would power their Siphons. Most of the recruits before him would be granted one Siphon, perhaps two. If they were really promising, perhaps three. Only Cassian and Azriel had been able to wear seven. 

As for Nesta, she wore no Siphons at all. Which made most of their audience more curious. Cassian knew what they were doing, because it’s what he trained them to do: They were sizing her up, assessing her advantages. Being High Fae, Nesta was smaller and more delicate than most. But appearances could be deceiving. And that was the real lesson Cassian wanted to impart.

No one should never underestimate their opponent. 

“You look good,” he whispered into the shell of her ear.

Nesta’s face remained as implacable as glass. The only telltale sign his words affected her was the blush that crept across the freckles around her nose. He hadn’t meant to fluster her...much. But it was true: she looked exquisite in Illyrian leathers. This particular armor had been custom-forged in the Dawn Court. Most of clung to her body in silver-white dragon scales which gleamed like polished bone in the sunlight. At her shoulders were tasseled epaulets, also silver-white. She carried no sword with her, but Nesta didn’t have to. 

Their weapons today wouldn’t be steel. 

They entered the ring while the novices crowded around them, each one pushing against another, some climbing higher on the mountain rock for a better view. It wasn’t everyday that the General-Commander’s mate would come to give them a demonstration. Much of what they heard about her were half-truths and rumors. But to Cassian, Nesta was not a myth. 

She was a legend. 

Like a dance, they took their position within the ring. Only wind broke the silence around them, heavy with bated breath. Cassian drew deep within himself, forming a two-handed sword out of bright, crimson light. Hushed whispers went around.  _ Son of Enaleus _ , they said. The blood of the first warrior supposedly ran strong within their General, which did nothing but mortify the war chiefs who—after all he had done—still looked down at him as a bastard. 

Nesta eyed his sword. Again, there was the barest hint of that saucy smirk. 

Then a hot, white flash. As blinding as the sun. Hushed whispers turned into surprised cries and eager chatter as their audience drew closer.  _ Witch _ , they said to one another.  _ Enchantress.  _

Wings. Nesta had given herself wings, wings made of light and silver fire—burning brighter than any phoenix. In her hand was a staff. She gave a nod and their fight began in earnest. 

Strike. Parry. Strike. Dodge. Strike. Nesta was in better shape than he thought. She must have been practicing without him. The minx. To think that she had all this talent, and still danced away when he asked her to spar with him.  _ I don’t want to make a spectacle of myself _ , she once said.  _ I’d rather  _ ** _you _ ** _ be the center of attention.  _

Of course, Nesta never wanted to be the center of attention. Even when she was human, the thought of all eyes on her were unnerving enough to make her nauseous. But there were many eyes on her now, and she was giving them exactly what they came for. And more. 

The both of them took to the air and continued their dance. Unlike the legions, Nesta didn’t fight using the standard forms. She didn’t like the series of steps that made up the foundation of the Illyrian combat style. Instead, she fought as though she were solving equations. Because Nesta, as Cassian was quick to find out, excelled at two things: numbers and the laws of physics. _Everything is a pattern_, she had said to him once. _Nature is a pattern. Magic is a pattern. War is pattern._ _And all I have to do, my beloved, is find a way to break it. _

And how would she break it now? He wondered. 

They circled around one another like falcons. Coming in, then drawing away. Her staff and his sword boomed and clashed like thunder. Nesta was one of the most interesting opponents Cassian had ever faced, and he had seen many epic warriors in his time. The kind that bards would sing of for thousands and thousands of years. She dove and he dove. He swung and she blocked. It was staggering. It was poetry. 

And then right in the middle: an opening between their minds. The gates of their bond flooding open. Cassian blinked. What was she—? 

An image imprinted itself in his mind.  _ Skin on skin. Feverish heat. Sweat. Nesta panting beneath him on her hands and knees.  _

“Shit,” he said, aloud. 

“What’s wrong?” he heard Nesta say, all innocence, before she struck him from behind. “Getting a little distracted are you?” 

He half-blocked it, the move costing him. Nesta had found her opening and went in for a full assault. Relentless. The image in his mind grew more vivid, more colorful. It was a memory of one of their most recent nights where his mate had called him—

_ “Commander…”  _

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t…” 

_ “Commander, please…”  _

He hit the dirt, on his back, the tip of a staff pressed against his sternum. Above him, Nesta was ablaze with victory. 

“Nothing in war is fair, Commander,” she said, smugly. “But in marriage, and as mates, we are even.” 


End file.
